


Holmes Minor Monthly Prompts - 2019

by gardnerhill



Series: Holmes Minor Monthly Prompts [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Book: A Study in Scarlet, Community: holmes_minor, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Prompt Fic, Story: The Adventure of the Empty House, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, Story: The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2019-10-02 16:38:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17267633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/pseuds/gardnerhill
Summary: Monthly prompts from the Livejournal community Holmes Minor (ACD Sherlock Holmes, no larger than 500 words each) for the year 2019.





	1. Threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes has opened more than one door for John Watson.

"Mr. Holmes, I can let myself in!" The thin brown ill-looking man in ill-fitting civilian clothing, whose strength was wholly engaged in hobbling up the stairs and lugging an Army rucksack behind him, belied that comment with his entire being.

His new flatmate smiled and set his hand to the doorknob at the top of the second staircase. "Pooh-pooh, Dr. Watson, it's more efficient this way."

*

"Brilliant work, Holmes!" Watson laughed, his arms bearing rolls of sumptuous Persian carpeting that were the last vestige of the operation that had netted the smugglers. "Pity we can't keep a few of these."

Holmes laughed in return even as he turned the handle that led to the main room at 221b. "My dear Watson, it would take a year of your doctor's fees to buy the least of these rugs. Mr. Ibrahim will pay my usual fee when we return these tomorrow."

*

The door was as it had always been. Yet it felt like lead as the consulting detective pushed it open to walk into the sitting room alone. In silence he turned to his room to remove the suit he'd worn to the wedding.

*

Mr. Mycroft Holmes had generously permitted him access to the rooms to collect any of his forgotten items or keepsakes. But the door loomed above him, as tight-closed as if over a mausoleum vault. Watson blinked away the blinding sting and turned back down the stairs from where he'd stopped halfway. His voice was thick as he handed the key back to a red-eyed Mrs. Hudson. "Nothing, I need nothing."

*

"And look, my dear fellow." With a grand gesture Holmes swept open the portal. Watson stepped through, eyes finally turning from the miracle of his friend in the living flesh to see the 221b digs unchanged from how they had dwelt in his memory – save for the broken window and the wax bust near the fireplace, proof that he did not dream.

*

Watson remonstrated in vain to ears that would not hear. "Dear man, it's a scratch. I took worse stumbling during a drill as a recruit!"

"You are not that resilient young Army medic any more." Holmes would not look at him as he led the way into the room, Watson limping behind in his torn and bloodstained trousers. "And I am clearly no longer possessed of a young man's wit and reflexes or I should have known what Evans had planned. The experiment is concluded, John, and the results are unmistakeable. This must be our last case."

*

Birdsong greeted them as they approached the little cottage; soon it would be joined by the hum of bees. Watson grinned. "Sherlock, I'm not 'thin as a lath' any more. Are you sure you want to do this?"

Holmes snorted as he unlocked the door, and turned back to the man who had shared his life for nearly three decades. "Surely you understand the importance of certain traditions, darling."

And Sherlock Holmes carried John Watson over the Sussex doorstep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor January 2019 prompt: _Opening a Door._


	2. Lingua Franca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson learns that there are all sorts of codes useful in a blind and blinkered country. A story in my [Oubliette](https://archiveofourown.org/series/134745) series.

One September morning after our return from Paris, Sherlock Holmes and I were aboard a train bound for the south of England, following a lead on a case. As our transportation pulled into the Basingstoke station he stood, extended a hand to me, and said "John, my dear husband, come with me." 

My head jerked up and I stared, heart pounding, at the man. Holmes stood in the doorway of our train compartment – the open doorway – smiling down at me as if he had not just incriminated us in public, within earshot of other disembarking travelers and the conductor. Had my friend lost his mind? 

But a second later I registered the phrase that I had just heard. 

Two weeks in the south of France followed by two weeks in Paris had vastly improved my comprehension of another language – to the point that I'd automatically understood " _Jean, mon cher epoux, avec moi_." 

And Sherlock Holmes had said this In a train car full of dull-faced and uncomprehending English folk, people who heard French words and let them glide past as if they were so much background noise. 

Relief drenched me. 

Suppressing a grin, I nodded and rose to leave the train. In the same French, I replied just as the conductor walked past, " _J'arrive, mon garçon chéri_ " (I'm coming, darling boy.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor February 2019 prompt: _Mother Tongues_


	3. March of Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Across three Marches.

1892 

"Mrs. Watson, your husband is here." 

Pride filled him at the defiant, unrepentant look on Mary's face as she stood and walked to the opened cell door, still wearing her rumpled VOTES FOR WOMEN sash over her mud- and tomato-soiled dress. 

"'March for equality,' my eye. Shouting in the streets and creating a public nuisance." The grizzle-haired policeman smirked. "Might want to teach her the error of her ways tonight, sir." In other words: _Give her a good beating and show her who's boss._

"I'll give that all the consideration it's due, Constable Rance. It is still 'constable' after all these years? Sherlock Holmes was quite right, you'll retire a constable." Watson walked out, Mary on his arm, past the red-faced man.

In the cab back to Kensington, she laid a hand on his. "Darling. This is the first time you've mentioned him without choking." 

He blinked. "Dear God. You're _right_." 

*** 

1893

All he knew was cold and wet, and breathing, and voices. Everything seemed distant, shrouded in heavy grey. His arms were trapped.

"Threw himself in the Thames, Inspector. Good thing one of the new lads was walking his beat in earshot and blew his whistle straightaway. Got a squad of men to drag him out." He'd heard that voice before, a few times.

"Get that lad's name for me, he's saved this man's life." Lestrade. Why did Lestrade sound so sad and bleak? He had a wife still, and friends. 

"Chap won't thank him for it. He was screaming 'they're all dead, I killed them all' and fought the blokes who saved 'im. Mad as a March hare." 

"Shut your fool mouth, Rance. His wife dies of the 'flu and takes their first babe with her? How'd you think a doctor would act?"

"…Yessir. Leave the straightjacket on him?"

"Yes. I promised… someone… that I'd help keep him safe. He's not hanging himself in my cell tonight." 

*** 

1894

March. Keep marching. March through dust, rain, mud, snow, tears, grief, emptiness. March. 

The plod of a soldier took over his mind, swathed him like the canvas jacket Lestrade had removed the morning after the last time he'd tried to feel anything. It felt almost like peace. It kept his mind quiet with duty and routine so that he resembled living people once again. 

Marching was simple, rhythmic, hypnotic. March his rounds, march home. March to the churchyard, march home. March to the charity hospital, march home. 

The daffodils were fading and the primroses were beginning to show. Soon he would end his year of wearing full mourning, marking nearly three full years of wearing black in one form or another, for one death or another. 

Death. Strange death of a young noble. 

Not a march this time, a walk to the house. His old life, past life, in that house of death. 

Walk toward Constable Rance at the scene, his old life stirring awake like a crocus uncurling from the snow. 

A bump, a stumble, spilled books. 

Halt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor March 2019 prompt: _March_


	4. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson might be able to learn something from Neville St. Clair.

My cheque-book was empty once again. Money slipped through my fingers so readily that no-one needed to be Sherlock Holmes to know I had once been a soldier. With a sigh I reached into one trouser pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, depositing the whole of my fortune on my night-stand. 

I looked at them. A few shillings, one half-crown, some pennies; just over a quarter of a pound. I'd hardly noticed them in my pocket. Copper and silver; shillings to be pushed across a counter for another beer, half-crowns and crowns swept up by a racing tout or card sharp, pennies to beggars. 

Beggars…

The most vivid image that remained in my mind from our last case had been the astonishing transformation of the twist-lipped and hideous beggar Hugh Boone into Mr. Neville St. Clair. 

But now two other images from that case rose before me: my first view of St. Clair's home The Cedars, and the man's sodden coat weighted down with pennies and half-pennies to sink it in the river outside the opium den where St. Clair had kept a room in which he changed from respectable businessman to scarred pauper. Over 2 pounds sterling in small copper coin; a beggar's boon indeed. That mountain of copper, begged a penny and half-penny at a time, had paid for that villa. 

For most of my life I had followed a soldier's pattern where money was concerned: receive my pay, spend it all, then languish in penury until I was paid again. I counted myself fortunate if I only had to pass a day or two with empty pockets. Now I had proof that those pennies in sufficient quantity could support a middle-class existence. 

For one whimsical moment I thought about turning beggar and amassing my own fortune on the streets of London. Instead, I rummaged in my room and found an empty tobacco tin. 

I scooped up the pennies and dropped them in. A short clatter; four small clanks at the bottom. My begging bowl, for myself. 

And into it, I would put my day's-end coppers from now on – farthings, pennies and half-pennies – and see how long it took to fill the tin, and what value it would hold in the end. No great pledge; only a quiet promise to myself.

Tin and copper; they just might bring security to a man perpetually short of sterling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor April 2019 prompt: _Change_


	5. Pros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to remind yourself of the benefits of freedom.

_A dead man is a free man._

_Those closest to me are safe now; they cannot and will not be used as hostages nor threats against me._

_I will move more swiftly with only myself to have a care for._

_I will be able to move unmolested by the remnants of this monster's operation._

_Now I can track them down one by one, and tear away the last threads of this vile web once and for all._

Teeth clamped on bleeding tongue, I chanted this litany in my mind over the sound of Watson's cries and the roar of water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor May 2019 prompt: _Freedom_


	6. The Simian Gavotte

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The veneer of civilization can be wiped away by one good tackle.

Sherlock Holmes and I belong to our thoroughly modern times; we are men of medicine and science, who attempt to bring enlightenment to both these fields as well as to the field of crime detection. 

While the world scorns the very existence of our romantic affair as obscene, what we exchange In private is as civilised and discreet as the same courtesies exchanged between the husband and wife who stroll past us two on the street. 

As men of our times, we also subscribe to the philosophy of _mens sana in corpore sano_ ; we participate in healthy physical activity in the form of regular walks together, and our own separate pursuits (boxing matches at my club for me and fencing practise at the university for Holmes). After such separate bouts we tend to our ablutions and dress, reunite as impeccably-dressed and groomed as ever, and once again wait until our return to our rooms to express our physical affection for each other. 

But one day we learned something new about each other. 

In chasing a brace of hired muscle for a crime boss, both of us were forced to tear along the riverbank of the lower Thames to prevent both men's disappearance. I executed a full rugger tackle of my man and wrestled him in the malodourous marsh-mud to subdue him and clap on the derbies. Meanwhile Holmes tripped his target with his walking-stick, met his back-swing with a masterful uppercut, and after a round of fisticuffs subdued the behemoth. 

We then made the mistake of looking to each other, wanting only to confirm we were well. 

Sherlock Holmes was filthy, plastered with mud and soil and blood, his garments torn in the scuffle, and heaving for breath after his bout. He was the most brutal, savage, beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life, and all I wanted was to finish tearing his clothes away so I could sod him into the mud right in front of the prisoners. He wouldn't stop me, either, for I saw the answering spark of lust in my man's eyes as he devoured my own equally-dishevelled and degraded appearance. 

By God's good grace the police caught up with us just then, and we gratefully relinquished our captives to the official force, promising to follow them to the station to question the men. When the Mariah was out of sight, one of us dragged the other into the tiny space under a nearby deserted and rotting wooden dock, and there we broke the law three times before we could regain our composure. 

In the cab to Baker Street for a bath and clean clothes, I recalled the old Aesop fable of the monkeys trained to gavotte in splendid garb who reverted to scratching, biting apes when a spectator threw a nut. 

We two continue our sporting endeavours. But now we return home disheveled and sweating in rumpled clothing, eager for that first, primal response of our loved one before we return to civilization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor June 2019 prompt: _Sport._


	7. Fabrication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson's dexterity with needles does more than mend lacerations.

The first Christmas Sherlock Holmes and I shared digs, Holmes unwrapped a pair of homemade black socks. I smiled at his incredulous stare, pleased not only at his reaction to my gift but also that I'd managed to surprise him. (In those days I'd been banished to my room whilst my eccentric flatmate saw his clients; I'd put those hours to good use.) "A soldier wearies of holes in his stockings, Holmes. Army service also contains a good number of idle hours. I went from darning my footwear to making my own." 

When I started accompanying my friend on his cases, I brought another bag besides my Gladstone. Train trips are ideal for progressing on a jumper or cap, and I could listen to Holmes' explanation of the case without missing a stitch. The Irregulars soon modeled my winterwear, as did our page boy and Mrs. Hudson's grand-niece. 

My hobby had a more practical application when my bone needles made splendid makeshift rapiers during a fight with a gang of forgers. For saving his life, Holmes gifted me with a pair of steel needles (my bone ones having broken during the fight). He proudly wears everything I make for him. 

"We two are close-knit," I told Holmes, "our friendship a purl of great price."

He hit me with a wool ball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor July 2019 prompt: _Needles_.


	8. The Answer Is...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some stupid questions cannot be given a brief reply.

He walked into their parlour and tamped down the relief and sense of home that washed over him. There was no time for that. While he'd been a captive in the locked back room of the pub he'd overheard Henderson's plans; he had managed to free himself via the coal-scuttle's narrow chute, tearing his clothing and his person not a little in the escape. Now he had to act on his knowledge. The pain was a mere distraction, he had vital work to–

"Oh, my dear fellow, you're hurt!" 

He unspooled the whole story to his ready listener with a relief like exhaling, and the antiseptic sting as the other man tended his scrapes cleared his mind as much as did the doctor's ministrations.

# 

The spider had slipped through his fingers once again. _Case dismissed_ , Judge Chiswick had said; the vile Professor could once again walk the London streets while the decent man who'd promised to give evidence was being fished from the Thames. The law had so very many limits, it was downright— 

"Unjust," harrumphed his companion in the hansom, "a disgrace. In an earlier time you could challenge the bounder to a duel and have done with the whole mess, and make London a better place. It would almost be worth a few days behind bars to land one on that villain's nose. He'd still be a free man dammit, but he'd feel that for a few days! Just give the word." 

Mirth bubbled up from his Slough of Despond; his companion's blazing indignation, mirroring his own thoughts, felt like the summer sun. He patted the other man's arm. "You're no use to me in gaol, old man."

# 

Macfarland was for the gallows if he couldn't put everything together, but nothing would stay put in his tumbling brain. All night he'd gone over and over the data, but the clay sat in a useless lump in his brain. The smug tone of Lestrade's message was the icing on this poisonous cake. It was there, the solution was _there_ if he could only see it. He would never forgive himself if his blindness got an innocent man hanged.

His hands were filled with warmth, and fragrant steam from the teacup wafted around his nose. More warmth stroked over the top of his head. He blinked at the light as the curtains were pulled back; the sun had risen at some point. 

His benefactor's voice was as steady and calm as when he gave a patient bad news. "Let's have some breakfast. And then we will go out, and do what we can." 

# 

After stringing the facts of the case together, utterly disproving his crestfallen flatmate's own theory, he swept out of the room where the man's body had been found and past the two constables on duty at the crime scene. 

It was very fortunate for them that Sherlock Holmes did not hear one say to the other, "George, why does Mr. Holmes keep that Dr. Watson imbecile around?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Holmes Minor September 2019 prompt: _Ask a Stupid Question._


End file.
